


this is not about that

by sheffiesharpe



Series: Peace Arc AU [6]
Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Bloodplay, Consensual Kink, Consent Issues, Discussion of Past Sexual Trauma, Kink Negotiation, Kinky, M/M, Relationships are Difficult, this is not crack, yes you read that pairing right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-30
Updated: 2011-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-20 21:40:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheffiesharpe/pseuds/sheffiesharpe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vossler and Gabranth continue to figure out their relationship. Vossler doesn't make it easy. Takes place after Peace is a River and A Clear Line of Sight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is not about that

It feels entirely strange to be walking toward the Southgate and the crystal like this, dressed like a civilian and carrying his clothes and shaving kit in a small satchel. He’s carrying no weapons. He doesn’t remember the last time he left Dalmasca unarmed. But he can’t port into Archades proper, into Tsenoble, with Nightmare across his back. He’d much rather come in through Sochen, but time will be short enough as it is, and he remembers walking through Old Archades and Nilbasse with Basch. There’s no way to cross the city quickly, its crowded streets and clamoring citizens. He’ll still have to take a cab into Central, and then he’ll have to negotiate the palace. He hopes Gabranth has taken care of that part; he’s not interested in giving his name to anyone, and he’s less interested in saying _who_ he is. For the rest of the evening, until tomorrow, until he’s back on Dalmascan soil, he is just a man.

He isn’t even dressed like himself, wearing neither uniform nor anything of an expressly Dalmascan cut. He’s not certain what he’s dressed like, though the clothes are new. He’d tried to borrow something from Basch, but Basch’s closet is even more dismal for civilian dress than his own. In the end, Balthier had been the one to take charge of the task. Balthier has been irritatingly present for a few days. Vossler pushes the thought of clothes from his mind.

Still, he knows people are looking at him as he steps up to the crystal, and he tells himself he doesn’t care. He tells himself, too, that it doesn’t matter that everyone will know he’s an outsider when he arrives in Archades. His business is none of theirs, and he doesn’t want to blend in, not there. The disorienting whorl and shimmer of the teleport is bad enough on its own—worse still to not know, exactly, what he’ll face when he arrives. When he and Basch were in Archades, some snot-nosed brat was standing by the Tsenoble crystal, complaining about people porting in above their station. Vossler tightens his fist around the strap of his bag, sets his jaw, and reaches out for the crystal with his other hand.

The hurrying streets of Archades waver into view, like water, and the place doesn’t fit with memory, not quite. The shop-awning to his left is the same, but the cab stand that’s supposed to be down the stairs, on the right, isn’t there. There are red cordons blocking it off for construction, and he doesn’t see Gabranth anywhere. Gabranth hadn’t said he’d meet him here—Vossler’s been there once before, and he’d told Gabranth he’d be fine getting around the city. He has the godsbedamned-ridiculous chop thing Gabranth sent him, remembers that yes, the fucking thing is necessary if he means to get to the palace. He has, too, Gabranth’s formal letter of invitation, in case he arrives late. That’s the only thing that will get anyone to find Gabranth for him. But the cabstand isn’t where it was, and he knows that’s his only route to Central. He curses in his own tongue and a few passersby look down their noses at him. He starts walking. It can’t be that hard to find where the cabstand has moved to.

He walks, but the people knot in the streets, and he has to keep clipping his steps to avoid clipping any of the people. He’s trying to get around a mummer and his crowd when someone touches his elbow and he has to fight down the near-automatic swing. The invective to just let him damn well be is on the tip of his tongue, and he whirls—to find Penelo standing beside him. She holds her left elbow with her right hand, behind her back, as she’d always done, though she’s traded her brown and gold singlet for full red trews, cut Rozarrian-style, and a silvery shirt that leaves her arms and stomach bare. They are the only two in this part of the city to leave their arms bare.

“It’s good something slowed you down. I was trying to avoid running after you.” She takes his arm like he’s offered it and steers him around the crowd.

He still can’t quite believe Penelo’s here, guiding him through the Archadian streets with telling ease. “Where are we going?” Now they’re on a street he hasn’t been on before, a narrow alley that smells sweet, like there’s some sort of pastry shop nearby.

She looks up at him like he’s said something stupid. “You’d _better_ be going to see Gabranth.” She looks nearly angry, too, and so she knows. Of course she knows—Larsa knows everything about Gabranth, and she has Larsa’s ear. And, if he’s honest with himself, anyone who saw Gabranth in the last month likely knew _something_.

Shame pinks his cheeks, and he tries to keep his voice impassive. “Why else would I be here?”

She is quick to grin again. “This city is kind of ridiculous, isn’t it?” She pats his arm. “But I’m glad. Larsa was worried—Gabranth really missed you.” Vossler feels his face burn, but then Penelo’s cutting them through another alley, and then through another shop—something that sells clothing of some sort—and then they’re standing in front of the relocated cab stand. He really isn’t certain where they are, though he can place things on the skyline—including Balthier’s place—so he’s not totally lost. Penelo sees him looking. She says, “I figured you wanted the fastest way, rather than the most scenic.”

He can only nod.

When they approach the cabstand, Vossler can see the attendant already looking down his nose at them, though Vossler’s a good six inches taller than he is. But Vossler’s bronze skin, his unruly short hair, his sheer size—obviously a foreigner—he’s both digging the damn chop thing from his bag and ready to tell the man off when Penelo nudges him. She flashes a flat black something at the man, and now he is _all_ courtesy. Vossler glares at him as he gets in, and then he and Penelo are alone in the cab.

“What is that?”

She holds it up. It’s shaped like the sandalwood chop he has, but it’s ebony-wood, chased in silver, and there’s a veneer of the Solidor sigil in rosewood on one side. “ _My_ pass.” She gestures to the one in his hand. “That will get you to the palace and all, but this gets me anywhere but Draklor.”

Vossler snorts. “Like you need it.” The children break into the Dalmascan treasury regularly, just to remind everyone they can. He makes himself think about Penelo being cheeky and not about Draklor Laboratory. It hasn’t been closed down, and he knows it’s foolish to think that it ever will be, but he still hates that it’s there. He’s been through Nabudis.

Penelo’s smile is wide, but she looks over her shoulder as the cab slows. Her heels tap the base of her bench; her legs aren’t long enough for her to reach the floor. “Stupid traffic. The construction has everything moving even slower than it did before.”

Vossler wishes there were windows in the cab, so he could _see_ , but he knows Archadian intrigue. Privacy here is of utmost concern. He drums his fingers on his knee and tries not to look as vexed as he feels, for Penelo’s sake. He’s glad she’s here.

“You’ll make it,” she says, and she pats his knee. The touch startles him.

He puts his head back against the headrest. The padded bench pushes soft against the bruise-remnants across his back. Before Gabranth had left the desert, he’d replaced the ones Ashe had healed, left him with a few stripes, Gabranth had said, to help him remember. The problem never had anything to do with forgetting.

Penelo keeps talking. “He asked me to come get you,” she says. “So don’t think he deliberately dumped you in the middle of this mess. But he wanted to get as much done as he could before you got here, so no one pestered him tonight.” Her grin is knowing, and Vossler briefly considers killing Gabranth for a whole new reason. He remembers, too, the mark, how much Penelo clearly knows already—is there anyone, now, in Ivalice, who doesn’t know about his preferences in the bedroom? Five years ago, his life was simple. Two and a half years ago, living in the waterways, trying to stage a coup—he is certain his life was simpler then, too, philosophically, if not in practice.

He changes the subject. “Where’s your partner in crime?” He asks, but he’s glad he has to. Today is not a day he thinks he could deal with Vaan.

Penelo shrugs. “He wouldn’t come along, and Larsa’s busy, so he’s probably out ‘gathering information’.” He hears her eye-roll, and he wonders if it has anything to do with that Jules person that Basch and Balthier and Fran have mentioned. Fran uses the exact same tone. Penelo fits her palms against the seat’s edge, scoots forward until her feet do touch the floor. “Vaan’s not real keen on doing favors for Gabranth, no matter what they are.” She glances up at him. They both know why. Vossler can’t bring himself to say anything.

“Vaan likes to forget that he’s killed lots of people’s brothers or sisters or parents or fluffy first pets,” she says, and Vossler can tell they’ve fought about this. She turns her head to the side, glowers as though he’s sitting beside her. Then she brightens, forcibly, as the cab lurches forward again. “Enough about that. You look nice.”

He still feels ridiculous. “Thanks,” he mutters. Penelo sits beside him, touches the close-fitting blue fabric on his shoulder. The shirt has a high collar, though the leather-laced closure criss-crosses well down his chest. The strings’ pattern masks and shadows the one visible bitemark, fading now, but he’s pretty sure Penelo’s seen it. She smoothes the fabric in a place he’s certain it wasn’t wrinkled, then takes his arm again.

“We’re almost there,” she says, and he wonders how she knows. Then she kind of snuggles up to his side, and he wonders what in the six hells she’s doing. Her face is all mischief. “Archadians like to talk, so let’s give them an interesting subject. Won’t hurt your reputation any if people think you’re here to see me.”

There’s some sense to that: Penelo, for all that she’s a Dalmascan orphan, is the emperor’s best friend. She has his ear and she has the trust of the emperor’s right hand. His thoughts turn to Gabranth’s hands, and it’s better if he thinks of them as they are, pale and chewed and iron-gripped, instead of iron-clad. The cab stops, and the door opens, and they are directly in front of the Palace gates.

Vossler steps out of the cab, and he lifts Penelo out, one arm under hers, one arm under her knees, and she looks inordinately pleased that he’s playing along. She swings her arms around his neck and steps lightly onto the white cobblestones when he puts her down. It gives him something more to concentrate on, something that isn’t all of these gawking people. If they’re going to stare, there should at least be a reason. She hugs tight to his arm again, and she starts walking. All he can do is make his feet follow, and his stomach twists, flutters. This feels completely different than it did, than crossing the same path that he had with Basch, with Fran, knowing Gabranth is somewhere here, waiting for him. He wonders if they’ll go first to Gabranth’s office or to his rooms at the end of that long, quiet hallway. Wherever they’re going, they have a long enough way: there’s the front courtyard, a fountain-lined promenade, then halls that enter halls that enter halls. Before it had seemed to pass in an instant. Today, it feels like he could have walked to Ozmone and back in this space.

It takes him a moment to register that Penelo’s talking again. “…meet Fred,” she says.

“What?” He leans closer to catch what she’s said, and someone mutters something. He puts his hand on her waist, and someone else says another thing. There are too many other sounds to hear the individual words, but he knows their aim. He doesn’t care. Penelo’s waist is small, delicate-feeling under his palm. It’s weird. He imagines instead broad muscle, the threaded ends of scars. He inches his hand down until there’s at least fabric between his skin and hers.

Penelo laughs at him. Then she repeats herself. “I said you should meet Fred—Magister Hausen.” At his face, Penelo pops him on the arm. “You have to at least give her a chance,” she says.

But he’s heard the name—Hausen—from Gabranth. Someone else he trusts with Larsa. “Her?” There’s another woman Magister? He doesn’t remember if Gabranth had mentioned that part—a week ago, he had more important things on his mind. He can’t help that his immediate reaction is a spike of jealousy.

“Mm-hm.” Then Penelo is busy flashing her fancy piece of wood at yet another set of guards, and a mechanical door slides open. He remembers this sound—the grate of technomancy—from _Shiva_. Gabranth’s door is heavy and wooden and swings open and closed as a door should. He is glad of that.

Finally they are in the hallway he remembers, and there is Gabranth, standing at the end of it, speaking to someone in armor, someone whose back is to them.

He doesn’t think anything in his demeanor changes, though his hand’s not on Penelo’s waist anymore, and she squeezes his arm and grins up at him. “Sure there’s not somewhere else you’d rather go? I could show you the Akademy library,” she says, tugging him toward the opposite direction.

He doesn’t look at her, though he lengthens stride until she has to jog-skip at his side, and then she just picks up her feet, holds fast to his arm, and lets him carry her for two steps. He still can’t figure out how or why she’s so cheerfully free with him.

“Unhand him, churl.” Gabranth’s voice cuts across the hall, then footsteps, and Vossler looks up. Gabranth is walking toward them, his face stern and hard. Vossler knows it’s a joke, but the expression still makes him want.

Penelo continues to hang from his arm, and she weighs so little. “Make me,” she says, and Gabranth’s mask cracks—his lips twitch up. The judge—magister by the helm under the arm—hasn’t moved from beside Gabranth’s door. Vossler has no idea who it is, but he guesses it must be Rannel. He’s not looking at him. But the judge is still standing there when Gabranth comes close, kisses Vossler hard on the mouth. Vossler’s eyes go wide. In front of someone? And Penelo’s still right there. When Gabranth’s kiss lingers on, Penelo lets go, and she huffs.

“Thank you for saving him from our fair city,” Gabranth says to her, his mouth still only inches from Vossler’s, his hand firm on the back of Vossler’s neck.

Penelo dips a little curtsey, and she sticks her tongue out at him. “Let me know if you need company getting back to the crystal in the morning,” she says to Vossler, and she waves at the other judge, who raises one metal-clad hand as Penelo walks away.

Vossler watches Penelo leave. He’s thoroughly confused by all of this, _like_ this, and then Gabranth kisses him again, biting a little at his lower lip. It makes Vossler want more, but he can’t forget about the other person in the hallway, and he’s the one to pull back first, glancing toward the armored silhouette.

“Sorry,” Gabranth says. “You ruin my manners.” He steps back, but still he looks Vossler over, from head to toe, and it’s like he’s a completely different person than the man he’d seen a week ago in the desert. There are still darkish half-moons under his eyes, his cheeks are still thinner than they’d been, but there’s such movement in him—he drags one hand down Vossler’s arm, and Vossler wonders if he’s going to hold his elbow the way Penelo’d done, or even take his hand, but he doesn’t. Vossler thinks he’s relieved because Gabranth is obviously going to introduce him to whomever this judge is, and it’s bad enough he’s already been seen with Penelo hanging off his arm and Gabranth’s tongue in his mouth.

As they get closer, Vossler sees that the door next to Gabranth’s is open, the rooms that had belonged to Drace. When last he was here, those rooms were empty, and the judge disappears into the room, comes back out with a long black cloak in the hand that’s not holding the helm. The door closes with a heavy sound. Gabranth reaches out to take the helm.

From a distance, the judge’s face had been sexless, hair cropped almost as short as Gabranth’s, and in armor, there is nothing to suggest femaleness. Even up close, Vossler’s best guess that this is the woman judge is based only on the fact that he can see no trace of stubble on her rawboned cheeks, though she’s certainly of his age.

She glances at Vossler. “Be with you in a tick,” she says, and her voice is certainly female, a low, pleasant alto at odds with her large teeth, her hawkish nose. She gets the cloak-ties managed even with the plate gloves, fits near-invisible grommets on their points so that the cloak truly hangs from the shoulders, rather than the neck. She takes the helm from Gabranth, tucks it under her left arm, and she holds out her right hand.

“Judge Magister Fermina Disayn Hausen,” Gabranth says.

Vossler takes her hand, clad in plate gloves, and he can feel the weight of the piece. He’s still not sure how anyone can stand that much armor. Her handshake is firm.

“Friends call me Fred.” She looks at him, green-eyed and even, and this, too, is a test.

It is just not the test he expected. “Well met, Fred.”

Her buck-toothed grin is easy. “And finally good to meet you, General Azelas.”

He looks at Gabranth. He had been hoping to at least minimize the number of people who know the overt connection between his face and his position.

“She’s a Magister,” Gabranth says. The implication: it’s her business to know who he is, and it’s true, he was here recently enough that he shouldn’t be surprised. And Vossler knows her face, too. There’s a reason, maybe, that she still holds her helm when she could cover herself with it.

So he exhales. “Vossler.”

She nods, pleased, perhaps. “Enjoy your evening,” she says, and there’s nothing suggestive in it. “ _Faram_.” She makes a curious sort of half-bow, something that reminds Vossler of being at temple, and then her helm is on, and she’s walking away.

Then Gabranth is pulling him into his rooms, closing the door, and he kisses him again, pushes him up against the door. Vossler remembers the raised scrollwork, rasping now on the old beltmarks, remembers _this_ , but what is new is how Gabranth is pressed so close, how his arms wrap tight around Vossler’s shoulders. Like he can scarce believe Vossler is actually here.

Vossler wants to be insulted by the concept, but he has no right to that. What he truly wants is to let Gabranth push him harder into the door, to give himself over to the heat already coiling in his stomach, the sheer _want_ , but this is not about him. It’s been only a week. The mark of Ashe’s sword is still a thin dark scab on the side of his neck, and he still has a hint of the sunburn that they’d both realized was inevitable. It shouldn’t be about Vossler. But it can be about this for a minute more, perhaps: Gabranth holds his wrists by his sides, squeezes the thin skin against the bone, and bites at his mouth.

When he puts half a foot of space between them, he says, “It’s good to see you.” And he looks Vossler over again, trails his fingers over the open laces at the chest, the soft blue fabric, the sleeves that barely cover half an inch past his shoulders. Only now does Vossler remember something Balthier said, last time he was in Archades, about this being Gabranth’s favorite color. He remembers why he hates Balthier and nearly pulls the shirt off entirely. But he refrains. Poncy little prat.

He thinks he’d feel better half-dressed than wearing it, these clothes that don’t feel like his own. Gabranth just looks at him, one eyebrow raised.

“What’s that look about?” His fingers trace the fading bitemark through the laces. The way he has to lift his fingertip and resettle it around the thin leather laces is strangely appealing.

Vossler shrugs. He doesn’t know how to explain. It’s just clothing. In the end, he says, “Never wore anything like this before.” That’s probably not true, but it feels true.

Gabranth pulls him away from the door, further into the room. “It’s too nice to be Basch’s, and you’d never fit in anything of Balthier’s.” And so he waits for the explanation.

“It’s new.” He’s not sure why it bothers him so much.

“It fits you well.” Gabranth pets at his bare arms, then his hand rests flat on the old belt-stripes across Vossler’s back. He pushes Vossler down to sit, stands behind him. Bending, Gabranth presses a kiss to the side of Vossler’s neck, reaches down to drag his fingers over the thigh of his trousers, too. “I appreciate the effort.”

Despite everything, he feels himself relaxing into Gabranth’s touch. And then Gabranth is sitting across from him. It sinks in: Gabranth isn’t wearing anything official. He’s not holding papers in his hand, he’s not finishing anything up right now, he’s just sitting there. And then there’s a knock at the door.

Gabranth stands and gets the door, and Vossler sees that he keeps the door mostly closed, doesn’t invite the woman with the tray in, carries it to table himself. Twice, he assures the woman that he needs nothing else, thank you, and Vossler doesn’t bother to hide the grin as Gabranth comes back into the room, closes the door. But Gabranth says nothing about it, and Vossler suspects that this is a common occurrence.

***  
It’s hard to know what to do now: they’ve eaten, it’s still light out—at least for a short while, and here they are. The rest of the evening stretches out before them, and Vossler doesn’t know what the right way to spend that time is. It’s too early for sleep, he has no interest in going back to the city or in walking around the palace complex, and, he reminds himself again, he hasn’t come here for himself. He hasn’t come for his own want. It’s a mantra he keeps repeating, though it doesn’t keep him from wanting. He’s here to make sure Gabranth has what he needs.

Right now, though, he can’t see any kind of need.

Gabranth sits across from him still, drinking a second cup of tea, slowly, not holding the cup by its handle. Vossler remembers him doing that before, at Balthier’s. Vossler wonders at how hot the thin porcelain must be—everything as delicate as bird-bones here, even the drinking glasses that were sent along with the food. But Gabranth drinks, and he looks strangely pleased. Vossler knows their ankles are only inches apart under the table, but Gabranth hasn’t touched him since dinner.

“What?” The word comes out before Vossler’s ready.

“Silence bothers you?” There the eyebrow raises again. On the survey, Vossler had complained about the lack of silence, how Balthier always seemed to be talking.

“No,” Vossler says, crossing his arms. “Just—what now?” It feels wrong to say it out loud, ungrateful in some way.

But Gabranth doesn’t take it poorly. “I have lots of ideas,” he says, and he grins, but he only sips at his tea again. “I am guessing you would rather not spend much time in the city,” he says. And he doesn’t wait for Vossler’s answer, only gets up, walks across the room to a set of armchairs. “We could talk.” There’s a brazier in front of them, but it remains unlit. The room is warm with late-summer humidity. Gabranth gestures toward one, so Vossler sits. The chair is plush and actually large enough for him to relax into. It feels a lot nicer than it has any right to.

“Hedonist,” Vossler says.

Gabranth makes a dismissive noise. “You haven’t seen the half of it,” he says, and he looks even more pleased. It strikes Vossler how true that is. Before, though they’d been on Gabranth’s bed, they’d not been _in_ it, and Vossler feels guilty that he cannot even say what is on the walls without looking now. He remembers the wrought-iron bedframe, the leather chest, remembers that there’s a window in the bedroom, but he doesn’t know what’s on its far side, what view it offers. In the other chair, Gabranth rubs his palm over the velvety upholstery absently. Vossler watches him, does the same. He likes the feeling, and the chair is wide enough that it he can press his bare arms against it. Beside him, Gabranth puts his cup down, and Vossler looks into the empty fire-bowl, wonders what subject Gabranth is bent on. He’d thought they’d said all that was necessary, in the desert. But Gabranth wouldn’t have kissed him on the mouth, not in front of Penelo and the new magister if there were anything—anything _else_ —amiss.

But Gabranth doesn’t say anything, only sprawls in his chair, watching Vossler.

“Thanks for sending Penelo to meet me,” Vossler says, just to say something.

“It was her idea, actually.” Gabranth pulls one leg up, crooks his knee over an armrest. Vossler barely knows how to understand the image, so much like Basch like this. “She’s rather fond of you,” he says.

The sentence startles him. “The way she lit into me suggests otherwise.”

Gabranth laughs. “Bet it wasn’t as bad as the hiding she gave me, when I came back.”

“I suppose we get what we deserve.” Vossler shifts in the chair. There’s nothing wrong with it, but it feels strange to sit here. He twists, tries mimicking Gabranth’s sprawl, and that’s not it, either. He toes off his shoes and the rug beneath his feet is just as decadently plush. He stands, sits on the floor in front Gabranth’s chair, rests his shoulder against the upholstery. There’s no reason this should be better, but it is.

Gabranth touches the nape of his neck. “Deserving or no, this is nice.” Vossler’s head falls forward. Gabranth’s fingertips are cool on his skin, but they’re not cold, not like they were in the desert, and then they’re a soft pressure across his shoulders, on the fading bruises. Vossler peels his shirt off, edges under Gabranth’s hand again, and Gabranth squeezes softly, then harder.

Vossler tries to hold his breath, to hold still entirely, but his breath stutters out and his shoulders press up into the faint ache. But—“You wanted to talk.” There might have been something important.

Gabranth drags his fingertips between Vossler’s shoulderblades, and there’s a faint scrape of nail on two of the fingers. There’s a strange small thrill in Vossler’s stomach at that—he leans more into it, and Gabranth must notice because he presses harder. He still doesn’t have enough fingernail to leave real scratches, but there’s the promise, and better still, there’s what it means. Vossler settles more firmly on his knees while Gabranth touches him, and his hand drifts up to the back of Vossler’s neck, then to the side. Again, he won’t squeeze, but he strokes the side of Vossler’s throat with his thumb, where his shirt collar had been. The gesture is simple, so simple, and it should feel fairly innocent, all things considered, but Vossler’s stiffening, and if Gabranth doesn’t stop—

He doesn’t. He keeps rubbing. But he does speak. “Would you have a difficult time holding a conversation, kneeling here while I play with your bruises?” His voice is so casual, so easy, saying something like that.

“Maybe not if we talked about that,” Vossler says. As soon as the words leave his mouth, he’s not sure what he’s doing. He’s terrible at sex-talk.

Gabranth says, “I had something sort of similar in mind.” But then he gets up from his chair. When Vossler shifts to follow, Gabranth shakes his head. “I’ll be right back.” And he disappears into the bedroom. Vossler reaches into his trousers, adjusts himself, and he rests his forehead against the edge of the chair. He has no idea what Gabranth is doing, and watching the door to the bedroom doesn’t make him more calm. Gabranth’s steps, though, seem heavier when he returns, and when Vossler looks up, Gabranth is carrying in his whole leather-bound chest, his arms stretched wide. Vossler is certain he shouldn’t be carrying it, but it pulls into relief cords of muscle in his arms, and it doesn’t look like it’s heavy to him. When he puts it down on the carpet near Vossler, just in front of the chair, Vossler can feel the thing’s weight. He stares at Gabranth, and Gabranth grins, though he doesn’t say anything about it. He just opens the lid, and the warm, thick scent of leather fills the room. Vossler tries to keep himself from looking in the chest while Gabranth re-settles himself, and this time, he puts his legs on either side of Vossler’s body, his hand on Vossler’s shoulder, and simply waits.

When Vossler doesn’t move, Gabranth nudges him with a knee. “Go on. See if there’s anything that interests you.” He puts his bare foot on Vossler’s thigh, pets him a little that way. “If you have any questions,” he says, “anything at all, please ask.”

When Vossler turns to look at him, Gabranth’s other hand is suspiciously close to his groin and Vossler can see the bulge. Vossler knows that the floggers are in the chest; maybe he can beg another beating with one of those.

When Vossler kneels up to look into the chest, there are the floggers, on top. Vossler picks up the heavier one, glances over his shoulder hopefully. Gabranth is grinning again.

“I know you like those. I want to see what else excites you before I suggest anything else.” He bites Vossler’s shoulder gently. “You can take things out and put them aside, so you have room to look.”

Vossler hates to let go of the flogger, but he does put it down: on the edge of the chair, right next to Gabranth’s thigh. He finds a similarly shaped something wrapped in cloth, and it’s another leather-tailed flogger, this one tipped, at the end of each tail, with a diamond-shaped metal bead. It’s surprisingly heavy, and Vossler knows he’s never been particularly imaginative, but it’s no work at all to picture how that might feel. He puts that one, too, next to Gabranth’s leg, and Gabranth laughs a little.

“There won’t be any room left for me on my own chair.” But he runs his fingers over the beaded tails, and they come to rest with a solid-sounding music. His other hand tugs a little at the back of Vossler’s hair. Vossler can’t let himself look, so he turns toward the chest again. There is a knotted, five-tailed cat, and that he sets to the left side, too, because Gabranth surely knows he’s interested in all of these things. When he finds the neatly coiled signal whip, his mouth goes dry. He doesn’t care if he seems predictable. It, also, goes to the side. Gabranth’s hand is steady on his back, and Gabranth doesn’t seem to be leaning forward, isn’t watching over his shoulder.

There’s more leather in the chest, too, but he turns his attention instead to one of the many hard cases, all numbered neatly. Vossler chooses number four. He opens it, finds a series of thin metal rods, ranging in thickness from almost needle-thin to nearly the size of his smallest finger. Half are straight, half curved. He has no idea what they are, and he holds the box toward Gabranth, open. He hopes the question’s plain enough.

“Sounds,” Gabranth says. “They’re inserted into the urethra—very carefully, of course.” His voice is completely neutral, his face calm. Vossler can feel his own horrified expression, and Gabranth says, “Done properly, it can feel quite good,” like he’s talking about massage or a shave and not _that_. His hand strokes down Vossler’s back, one bit of pressure crossing a tender place, and though that makes his breath hitch, Vossler almost twists away from the touch. Almost. What he does is close the case carefully. Truth be told, he’d like to throw it—the very idea of putting something _in_ his cock makes him actually feel nauseous—but he doesn’t. He holds it for a while, then puts it to the side, with the floggers. And now he’s going to forget that whole thing exists, until he can’t. Gabranth’s hand slides up to the back of his neck, squeezes. But he doesn’t say anything.

Vossler breathes deep and looks into the chest again. He can’t quite shake the image of those metal rods, and he doesn’t really want to pick up any more of those cases for fear of what else he’ll find. He puts his attention on a bundle of fabric: there are scarves in various colors, all slick, strong silk, and there’s a little jingle of bells. Some of the scarves aren’t scarves—there are long, full pants with chimes at the ankles, hip-shawls, at least one skirt. When he glances back at Gabranth, Gabranth is stifling a smirk. Vossler very deliberately puts the whole pile off to his right, away from the floggers. Gabranth lets out a dramatic sigh.

“And I’d had _such_ a dancing girl fantasy of you,” he says, rubbing his knee against Vossler’s side.

“Bark up Penelo’s tree,” Vossler says, and he makes himself grin, too. It’s funny. He should let it be. He turns his attention back to the silks. He knows how strong the material is.

“She’d do it if you asked,” Gabranth says, and his voice is somehow serious, if still tinged with laughter. His left foot lands on Vossler’s thigh, and he rubs the inside of Vossler’s leg with the arch. “She thinks you’re ‘delicious’.”

Vossler shoves at Gabranth’s leg. Gabranth doesn’t move his foot. “Stop talking nonsense.” He digs out a black scarf from the discard pile, moves it to the other. On second thought, he can picture it tied around his wrists. Or under his hands, rubbing across Gabranth’s chest.

Gabranth’s fingers card through his hair, tug his head back until Vossler’s looking up and Gabranth’s looking down at him. “It’s not nonsense. She’s told me so. And Larsa. Who, by the way, is terribly disheartened at that news, but I can’t blame her one bit.” He nips at Vossler’s mouth. And then he lets go.

Vossler just mutters. He looks for more leather, finds the cuffs Gabranth had used on him the first time, finds a few more variations on the theme—some padded with nanna wool, some far too small for him, and a set of mithril manacles, no padding, connected by a long chain. The padded cuffs don’t interest him, and the small ones won’t do him any good, so he sets them aside, too. The chain, though, is heavy, and he gathers it between his hands, pulls. There’s not an ounce of give in it, and Gabranth shifts, leans closer, his palm pressing full against his back.

Thinking about that gives him courage to try one of the other cases. It’s full of actual needles, long, thin, sharp. Something twists sour in his stomach. He doesn’t put it to the right or left, just puts it back in the chest. Vossler breathes, reaches again. The whole time, Gabranth’s fingertips play over his back, sometimes only resting there, sometimes pressing into the old bruises. Vossler tries, can’t find a pattern. Can’t tell if it’s supposed to mean something.

The next thing he finds feels like fur, and there is a tail. It’s attached to some sort of ridged, rigid handle, and he’s holding it by the handle when he realizes it’s not a handle at all. He switches his grip instead to the furred end. There’s a set of small, furred bags with it. “What are these for?”

Gabranth balls one hand into a fists. “Paw covers.”

He remembers something from being with Basch in the desert—“You should send that to your brother,” he says. That’s easier than thinking about the thing itself.

Gabranth’s immediate grin tells Vossler that Gabranth _knows_ what he’s talking about. “Caught him watching, did you?”

“Wolves. Hyenas. Destriers.” Caught him watching them mate, and Basch always tried desperately to hide the fact that he was hard from watching, tried desperately to deny that he’d been looking in the first place. Vossler puts those things into a third pile. It would be worth it to take the tail back just to watch Basch die of embarrassment. He doesn’t let himself think about being on all fours himself. It’s too much. Too much what, he’s not sure. What he finds next he thinks might actually go with the tail and paw-covers—it’s a leather collar, and he holds it in his hands, runs it between his fingers.

“Send that, too?” Gabranth asks. He’s smiling, but he also glances at the chest, something wary in his look.

Vossler just shakes his head. “Basch doesn’t like anything tight around his throat.” The leather is supple, smooth.

Gabranth’s fingers side up to his neck again, and they start that maddening petting. “But you might.”

Vossler isn’t sure if it’s a question, but he nods, and Gabranth takes it from him, puts it over top of the growing pile beside him. Vossler has never seen such a collection, and the chest still isn’t empty. Vossler doesn’t lean forward again. He leans back, his head against the chair. Gabranth combs idly through his hair with his fingertips, and Vossler takes a deep breath, then several.

Now it is Gabranth who asks the question. “Something’s on your mind. What?”

Vossler only shakes his head. It takes longer than it should for the word “Nothing” to come to his tongue, but he finds it. Then he turns, wedges himself between Gabranth’s legs, reaches for his belt. Gabranth’s fingers close around his wrists, and he looks at Vossler for a while, before he lets go, before he tells Vossler to put his hands behind his back and keep them there.

Vossler laces his fingers together, thinks about the small mountain of restraints behind him, but then Gabranth is inching forward in the chair.

“Go on,” he says, and Vossler knows this would be a lot easier with his hands. He thinks he should know by now that easy isn’t the point of any of this, not most of the time.

He manages to open Gabranth’s belt with only his teeth, and the smoky flavor of the leather, the metallic tang of the buckle are good on his tongue. He can’t get the catch on his trousers open, though, a double-buttoned affair, and Vossler tries to calculate how hard he’d have to yank with only his teeth to break the stitching on both of them. But Gabranth doesn’t let him do that. He pushes Vossler’s face into his groin, against the fabric, and Vossler rubs in closer, mouths at the cloth. The feeling is nearly stifling, Gabranth’s hand steady on the back of his head, the air around his nose and lips heated, dense. Vossler licks, the fabric abrading his tongue, and he _wants_ , bites at the closure of Gabranth’s trousers again. He hears something pop, hopefully threads. Gabranth pulls him back by the hair, and Vosslers fingers knot hard against each other.

Gabranth’s eyes are blue fire. “Maybe someday I’ll give you permission to rip my clothes off, but not today.” He’s almost smiling, and the long, thick line of his cock juts hard against the fabric.

He lets go, and Vossler doesn’t know what to do next. Then he is dismissed.

“Go,” Gabranth says. “Bedroom. Washroom on the left if you want it.”

For a moment, Vossler forgets he has legs. Then he wonders if he could crawl. If he would do it. He decides he won’t, decides he can’t, not now. _Not yet_. Maybe.

When he gets to his feet, his legs feel stiff from kneeling there, the flickering tingle of half-asleep nerves, and it’s followed by an unsteady uncertainty of what is going to come next. He does stop in the washroom, checks his teeth, tries not to look at his cock in his hand while he pisses because if he looks, he’s going to see those rods. He grits his teeth. It wouldn’t be the worst thing that happened to him, he tells himself. He could do it, for Gabranth. He’s done worse for people he’s liked much less. He braces, and when he gets to the bedroom, Gabranth is there, already undressed, and the black silk scarf is there, covering something else, something vaguely square, on the stand beside the white-sheeted bed. Vossler breathes through his nose, lets Gabranth turn him until he’s looking at the window, the sky dark but the lights of Archades bright enough behind it. He still doesn’t know what he’s actually looking at, outside. He doesn’t ask. The scarf comes over his eyes. He doesn’t say anything, either, when Gabranth asks if the blindfold is all right. He nods, though. The blindfold might make it easier.

Gabranth’s hands are on his trousers, opening them, stripping Vossler bare, there in the middle of the room, and he settles him on his back on the bed. The sheets are soft, nearly slick in their smoothness, decadent. It feels better than he thinks it should, and he tries to think about that instead of the leather case he knows is beside him. The sheets feel good, and Gabranth feels good above him, too, kneeling with one knee between Vossler’s. Gabranth is strangely quiet, for him, and the room itself is wholly silent. Vossler hears nothing at all of the rest of the Palace, nothing of the city. At all times, in his own rooms, he hears Dalmasca. One of Gabranth’s hands skims slowly up his thigh, over his hip, along his ribs. He could stop it. Gabranth said that he could, that first time. Two syllables. But he can’t. Not when Gabranth has given him so much.

Vossler holds himself still. He wasn’t told not to move, but he doesn’t want to move. He doesn’t want to give anything away. The air trapped in his lungs won’t come out when he hears the metallic catch click beside the bed, the same sound that the cases he’d opened had made.

The hand on his body returns, resumes its slow work, and Vossler isn’t even hard. Gabranth says nothing about that either, even when his fingertips brush his limp cock, even when he cups it in his palm, lifts, holds, angles. Something stiff and cold and metal touches the head of his cock, and Vossler closes his fingers tight on the sheet. The feeling shifts, slides, and the tip of whatever it is ghosts against the slit. The feeling is pointed, not-quite-sharp. He opens his eyes against the cloth, can see nothing, can hear nothing save his own breath, and then there is Gabranth’s voice, steady and even.

“What is your safeword?” The metallic pressure is still there, though it warms.

Vossler has to find a way to release his jaw. “Nightmare.”

The pressure increases the barest bit. “Why aren’t you using it?”

His tongue feels dry against his lips. “I’m fine.”

Gabranth’s hands, the metal—nothing is touching him. Then Gabranth is undoing the scarf over his eyes, and when Vossler looks at him, Gabranth’s face is grave. Gabranth’s face is grave and he’s not hard, either, and Vossler doesn’t feel better about that.

“Do not lie to me, Vossler. Not here. Never for this.” Gabranth’s left hand is curled into a tight fist, and he leans closer, braces himself on his other elbow, only inches from Vossler, but they’re barely touching. “Promise me that.”

“I’m sorry.”

Gabranth shakes his head. “I didn’t ask you for an apology.” And he waits. Some days, Vossler wonders what it would be like to have patience like that.

Vossler wishes the blindfold were still on. He doesn’t want to promise because he doesn’t want to break it. The back of his mind tells him he is a fool, a prideful fool, for not wanting to accept this, what Gabranth is offering, that Gabranth is _ordering_ him to say what he doesn’t want. But he wants Gabranth to have what he wants, and right now, Gabranth wants that from him. He tells himself he will find a way to like whatever Gabranth likes, then, so he will not have to lie.

“I promise.” His mouth feels like it’s cracking.

Gabranth studies him, and he re-covers Vossler’s eyes. Then his hand is on Vossler’s cock again, the metal pressed against him, just barely _into_ him, and Vossler bites down hard on his lip, every muscle tense, before he realizes that this is a test.

He still waits a little longer to say it. “Nightmare.” It shouldn’t bother him to say it. It shouldn’t. It still does. His stomach is knotted tight, half-sick. But Gabranth breathes _thank you_ and he moves his hands and his mouth touches Vossler’s. The kiss is firm, grounding, controlled, and Gabranth’s bare palm strokes firmly up his side. Vossler puts one hand on Gabranth’s arm, and he wants to see him. His eyes are still covered. When his head shifts, the silk over his eyes moves, and if he just pressed his head harder against the pillow, twisted and ducked, he’s certain he could clear his sight.

When Gabranth pulls back, Vossler surprises himself by asking. “Let me see,” he says, “please.”

Gabranth’s expression is better this time, though he still seems to be searching for something in Vossler. Vossler doesn’t mean to look, but he cannot help the way his eyes slide toward the side, toward the black case on the table. Seeing it likely won’t help—but it’s not the same case. This one is a little smaller, though closed. He can’t see anything on the bed, nothing on the floor. Gabranth’s left hand is still curled into a tight fist, and he won’t let Vossler touch it. In the end, he puts it completely behind his back.

“I need to be able to trust you,” Gabranth says.

That Gabranth is saying that to him makes his head spin. It’s not new, not really. Gabranth has talked about it before. But it’s still strange when Vossler’s the one offering his body, when he’s the one taking the risk. He’s not sure how he can answer, so he slips his fingertips along Gabranth’s jagged right collarbone, down the beautiful scarred ruin of him. Gabranth leans into the touch, a little, and his eyes nearly close.

Vossler says, “All right.” His lungs fill shakily. “I swear it.”

Gabranth nods. “I may ask you to try things that are new to you. But I will ask. And you can always say no.”

Vossler says it before he can help himself. “So ask.” If Gabranth asks, he doesn’t know if he will say no. He knows he should.

Gabranth shakes his head, and he’s almost smiling again. “If you’d been unnerved but curious, I might. But you looked like you were going to be ill from my first explanation. There’s nothing either of us would get from that experience.” He leans in, bites at Vossler’s ribs. “I’m not that kind of sadist.” It’s the kind of thing that should be a joke. It isn’t.

“But—” But there was something. Even if this turned into some sort of elaborate test— _one he failed_ , his memory reminds him, but he isn’t as upset about that, right now, as he could be—he didn’t hallucinate that feeling against his cock. Gabranth’s left hand is still behind his back. “Show me,” he says. “I want to see it.”

Gabranth brings his hand forward, still closed, and Vossler can’t see anything, but he pushes himself up a little, so he isn’t just lying there. Gabranth still doesn’t open his hand, so Vossler reaches, uncurls Gabranth’s fingers himself. On the tip of his middle finger, there’s a silver ring, tipped with a curved, tapered point. _Talon_ , Vossler thinks, and he swallows. “Oh.” In the sharp spike of wanting, too, there is the realization that he wasn’t right, anyway. The thing he fears isn’t even in the room. Gabranth was never going to—but there’s no time for that. He leans, turns Gabranth’s hand palm-up, licks the pad of his finger, where the metal isn’t. The point presses the underside of his jaw, just barely, and his mouth wants to go slack.

Gabranth draws his hand back. “You can guess a better use for this,” he says, then amends, “for these.” He opens the case again, fits two more of them over his first and third fingers. There are more, of them, shaped a little differently, three sets. Vossler can only pay attention to the ones on Gabranth now, the reflective glint. He offers his hand again to Vossler.

The tips are fine, sharp, but not needle-pointed, and he fits his own fingertips onto them. With pressure, they dent the skin, don’t break it, but Vossler’s fingertips are toughened, the skin thick. Gabranth threads his fingers between Vossler’s, curls his talons down, rakes three short red lines across the back of Vossler’s hand.

Vossler closes his hand over Gabranth’s, presses the metal points harder into his own skin.

Gabranth says his name. Vossler writes it over with _please_. “I want this,” he says. Already he’s hardening, already he imagines it. “Please. I mean it.” He sits up more, presses a kiss to the corner of Gabranth’s mouth, to the stubbled lee of his chin, tries to think how else he might show it. His tongue traces the thin red scab on Gabranth’s neck, tastes the coppery stain of it, and Gabranth ducks, catches his mouth, his own tongue shoving at Vossler’s. His clawed hand curls around the back of Vossler’s neck, the metal points resting along his throat. Vossler moans rough into the kiss, tries to get closer, clutches at Gabranth’s shoulders.

Gabranth pulls back, though his hand stays where it is. “I will learn you, Vossler Azelas,” he says, and his mouth turns up at the corners. “In all ways.” This time he bites at Vossler’s lips, flexes his hand minutely, drags his teeth over rasped skin. “I will learn you, if you let me. If you will be honest with us.”

The inclusive at the end is confusing for a moment. Gabranth doesn’t talk about himself in the plural, though Ashe does, though Larsa does, when they are ruling. Balthier does when he’s being a prat. It takes too long to remember himself in the equation: with Gabranth, with Vossler, too. There is drumming in his spine.

“Yes,” Vossler says. He will be as honest as he knows how to be, and nothing right now wants anything less than truth. He lets Gabranth push him back down, tilts his head, bares his neck, the top of his shoulder.

“Not where it will show.” Vossler should have remembered. Still, Gabranth ghosts the talons along that plane, the lines going red and fading just as quickly. The cupped claws dig into his shoulder, turn him onto his side, and Vossler feels the marks on his scapula redden and flare. Gabranth moulds himself close against Vossler’s back, presses harder from Vossler’s collarbone down, presses hard enough to raise thin welts along his ribs. His other arm threads under Vossler’s neck, folds until his fingertips cup Vossler’s opposite shoulder, Vossler’s throat so near the crook, the easy throttle of his elbow.

“I have you,” Gabranth says. It is only almost reassuring. Vossler would give nearly anything to take himself in hand, but he is holding still, waiting as best he can, when the silver rake starts again.

Vossler can feel himself nearly trembling at it, the pain caught between dull and sharp, pricked in places where Gabranth curls his fingers, digs into the skin. Gabranth sucks hard on Vossler’s earlobe, nips at it, bites, while his cock pushes between Vossler’s legs, hard and insistent. Vossler is the one who gropes for the beside table, for the unstoppered bottle. He tips it one-handed, smears his thighs slick and shining, strokes Gabranth until his hand is nudged away, until Gabranth’s teeth score the outside of his shoulder.

Vossler reaches, one hand on Gabranth’s roving wrist, so he can feel every shift in muscle and tendon as the points pull, the other arm overlaying Gabranth’s, a collar of flesh and bone. The claws score up from his knee, the middle and third finger raking hard up the center while his index finger slides along the tender inner skin, drawing through the oil, and sliding the heated metal, the outer curve of the claws, up the length of his cock.

Vossler moans, arches back into the soft friction of Gabranth’s shaft against his balls, and the claws prick hard into his hip.

“Yes,” Gabranth says, letting him arch harder into the points for a moment before he takes the pressure away, before he scratches instead, before he pushes the talons back up Vossler’s chest, refusing the points, giving only the convex skim, the near-itch over earlier marks. He drags them over the back of Vossler’s arm where it covers his own, presses until the welts sting sharp and his bicep is flat against Vossler’s throat.

Gabranth’s tongue follows the shell of his ear as a single point circles his right nipple. “Touch yourself.” When Vossler obeys, the clawed fingers cover his own, squeeze his hand closer around his cock, and Gabranth’s hips shove hard against his, rock in and back, Gabranth’s breath tightening on the back of his neck.

Vossler is nearly there, is trying to find the words to ask, when Gabranth lets go his hand, and Vossler wants it back, and then the hand is against his chest and Gabranth is saying his name and the claws are biting down and hard and the skin gives as Gabranth’s spend paints his balls, his thighs, the sheets with heat and slick. Vossler forgets his own hand, his own grip, is coming from the pain, the scent, the faint bar at his throat, Gabranth’s voice in his ear, and he doesn’t want it to end.

But it does end, it has to, because the drops of blood sliding cross-ways across his chest to the bed almost tickle as they near his side, feather-light in counterpoint to the three pulsing tears in his skin. Vossler shifts, wipes at the drips with his wrist before they can hit Gabranth’s sheets, and Gabranth disentangles slowly, kisses first the side of Vossler’s neck and then his mouth before licking one of the claws clean of its carmine smear.

Vossler wants his mouth like that. “Kiss me again,” Vossler says, and Gabranth smiles before he does, before his tongue rubs the red traces between them. Gabranth uses the edge of the sheet to clean himself, Vossler’s groin, and Vossler almost says something about trying to avoid ruining the sheets, but there is more fabric beneath and to raise his head feels a strangely difficult task. Gabranth takes the talons off, sets them on the bedside table, and he strokes over the welted lines, presses an open-mouthed kiss to the three open wounds. Vossler moans because he can’t stop himself.

“Yes,” Gabranth says. He breathes deep, his forehead pressed to Vossler’s hip for a moment. “One minute,” he says, and he leaves the room. Water runs and Gabranth comes back with a wet towel, a glass of water, another black case, this one larger, this one trimmed in blue and green. Vossler drinks half, gives the glass back, and he is glad to see that Gabranth finishes it.

Gabranth opens the case on the bed beside him, and Vossler is surprised, but suspects that he shouldn’t be, that it’s a full field medic kit, plus a few things. The wet towel rasps across his chest, the open scratches starting to throb a little, and Gabranth spills a tonic of some sort over his fingertips. His hand hovers over Vossler’s chest.

“That’s not going to heal them?”

Gabranth shakes his head. “It’s not going to heal them.” The pads of his fingers skate the two inches of each cut, and it burns the way that ice burns on bare flesh. An antiseptic, then. Vossler grits his teeth, lets Gabranth trace his fingers over all of the welts. On those, it feels only cool, save for a few places where a pinprick of blood has pushed itself to the surface. One last smudge he paints under the curve of Vossler’s jaw, then blows against it. Vossler shivers hard, and all of him feels pleasantly cool after the thrumming heat. The three open scratches Gabranth covers with a bandage, and Vossler rests his hand on Gabranth’s side as he finishes, as he wipes them both more clean with the towel. The towel he tosses toward the door, then takes a pad of nanna wool from the kit, splashes it with the antiseptic, and cleans the three talons meticulously, sets them to dry point-up.

Vossler feels desire pool in his stomach, feels it bead and drip. Gabranth catches his gaze. And he looks pleased.

“We’ll clean up properly in a little,” Gabranth says. There is still the faint sheen of oil on both of them, needing hot water and soap. He stretches out beside Vossler, lies for a while with one hand cupped over the bandage on his chest. “Rest,” he says, and Vossler wants to protest that he hasn’t been doing anything that really requires rest, but his chest still feels the echo of his pounding heart, his muscles near-quivering in the absence of tension. So he closes his eyes, lets himself drift for a awhile.

He doesn’t quite sleep, and Gabranth is wholly awake the whole time, watchful, it seems. Through the veil of his eyelashes, Vossler follows the tilts of his chin, the path of his gaze.

“Thank you,” Vossler says.

Gabranth’s fingers drag featherlight over the bandage, just enough to wake the nerves. “For what are you thanking me?”

Vossler sucks air between his teeth, breathes it out easy. “For that,” he says, and he makes himself go on. “And the other.”

“For what?” Gabranth’s hand caps his shoulder, warm and steady.

And now the breath—and the words—don’t come easy, but he owes Gabranth the decency to say it. “For not going through with—” But he wasn’t going to, didn’t even have the sounds with him, so there was nothing to go through with. “For showing me I could say no.”

Gabranth holds his gaze. “For keeping you from letting me rape you?”

“That’s not—” Vossler scowls. “I didn’t—”

“That’s what it would be for me, Vossler. If you don’t want something but you don’t say so.” Gabranth rolls onto his back. “I don’t want what I’d have to force on you. I’ll take as much as you want to give, and I will _take_ it if that’s what you want, but I will not force you.” He reaches, runs his fingertips down Vossler’s throat. “That’s not how this works.”

Vossler doesn’t say that he’s never really had it work at all before. Gabranth knows that already. He only nods, touches the puffed pin-pricks on his hip. He lies quietly for a while, and Gabranth, too, is quiet, and Vossler is a little glad for that. Eventually, he takes Gabranth’s hand, puts it over the same marks, says, “I enjoyed this, though.”

Gabranth laughs a little. “I guessed that.” He bends to kiss Vossler again, and it becomes a slow, languid thing, stretching them out against each other again. Vossler wants, but not urgently, and Gabranth’s hands smoothe down his arms in a way that edges them apart, gently.

“You might want something from me that I can’t give you,” Gabranth says. “Whether it’s because of who I am or the shape I’m in.”

Vossler nearly protests, doesn’t. He knows the last is an issue. As much as Vossler would love to lick at beading blood on Gabranth’s chest, he would never want to see Gabranth break his own skin on purpose, not as slowly as he heals.

Gabranth goes on. “But you can say so. You can always ask. And you can always change your mind about something.” He props himself up on his elbow beside Vossler, his thumb on one welt along his ribs, one striped with a keener line of red through the center. The skin isn’t quite broken, not properly, but the blood is caught under the skin. “I’m curious. What’s one thing you want, one thing I can’t give you?”

Vossler breathes through his teeth, just shakes his head. _This is enough. This is so much._

Gabranth bends, licks at the welt, sucks on it, and the pain is sharp, focusing. “Vossler.” His voice takes on that patient tone, and it sort of pisses Vossler off that Gabranth moves so easily through these conversations. He’s had them before. Vossler is both grateful and resentful at once. He rolls his eyes, and Gabranth scrapes a little with his teeth. “You’ve spent a lifetime wanting what you thought you’d never have. There must be something.”

Vossler pushes him back, rolls, and Gabranth turns over, too, their positions reversed. He looks hard at Gabranth’s eyes, and the blue-gray returns nothing strange, nothing suspicious.

“It won’t upset me. I’m curious.” Gabranth slides a hand over Vossler’s arm.

Vossler tries not to feel that. It doesn’t work. “What about you?”

Gabranth’s head jerks to the side. “I’m not asking about me.”

Vossler sort of wants to hit him. “I am.” He settles for taking Gabranth’s wrist, pinning his hand to the bed. Gabranth’s gaze slides up to his, slow and deliberate. Vossler wants to let go, doesn’t. “You answer, I answer.”

Gabranth jerks his hand free, shifts until he’s sitting against the headboard. “Do you actually want to know?” His legs stretch out in front of him, and when Vossler nods, a tight dip of his chin, Gabranth sighs. “Can you accept that I’m not _asking_ for it, if I tell you?” He looks doubtful.

Vossler crosses his arms. “I can if you can.”

Gabranth laughs. “You stubborn bastard.” His fingertips skate over Vossler’s knee. “Fine,” he says, and his voice drops, “if you really want to know.”

When he says that, something in Vossler’s stomach drops, not completely unpleasantly. His heartbeat ratchets, and now he wishes he’d looked through the whole chest. Something in his balls stirs, too, even as he remembers those metal rods. Gabranth isn’t giving him any clues; even his hand on Vossler’s knee is gentle.

“I think you with a woman would be gorgeous.” Gabranth flattens his fingertips a little. “To watch, or to share.”

Vossler can only blink. “A woman.” He remembers their conversation in the desert. He doesn’t even know if he _could_ be with a woman, but it seems…somehow mundane, after what he’d expected. He looks at Gabranth narrowly, though the scrape of a fingernail on one welt sweetens the glance.

Gabranth only shrugs, refuses to say more. _Not asking, not trying to convince you. You asked me_. The conversation is based on improbability or impossibility. Vossler tries to remember that. Then Gabranth says, “Your turn.”

“You said no one else.” He doesn’t know if he means it to be an accusation. It, for once, doesn’t really come out like one.

“There’s a difference between a negotiated situation and not knowing who your partner’s with, how he’s being treated, if he’s being taken care of.” Gabranth’s voice is even, his gaze level. “Now you.”

Vossler was going to say the cuts, the blood, because he knows it’s not something he can have, Gabranth knows it, and there’s nothing to lose in saying it, but he can’t. It wouldn’t be the same kind of honesty and he promised that much and something low and dense curls in his gut. _Not knowing who your partner’s with_. The image comes into his mind, the dark room, the many voices, the not-knowing. Not knowing who, how many. If he were looking at anyone but Gabranth, he thinks he’d call it shame, the feeling creeping up his spine. He still might. But he owes Gabranth the words. The words are difficult. Try as he might, it won’t come off his tongue. It shouldn’t be something he wants, not after everything that had happened to him, not after Gabranth.

All he can say is, “I can’t say it.” He braces himself for what Gabranth had said to him before, on the survey: _If you can’t say it, you can’t do it._ There, Vossler hadn’t argued, but he has always managed doing far more easily than saying. Here, with this, he can’t show Gabranth, either. He can’t show Gabranth because he’s only one man, can’t find a way to describe _use_ and _fullness_ and the raw, shaking feeling of _too many, too much_ and that he thinks if anyone can somehow find the way to make _that_ right somehow, to make it good, it’s Gabranth. But this isn’t about asking for things, either. He says that he cannot say, and his head hangs.

Gabranth reaches for him, pulls him in close. Something about the action makes Vossler feel smaller than he knows he is, and he can’t decide if he hates it or not. Gabranth doesn’t ever give him time to decide those things before something shifts, before it’s something he knows he likes on top of it, even now. This time, it’s that Gabranth slides his fingertips up Vossler’s thighs, over the two thin welts, before petting softly, before wrapping one arm around him firmly. “Whenever you want to say it. _If_. You don’t have to.” Gabranth’s mouth is beside his ear. “But I might even like the idea. Remember that. There’s nothing I would shame you for.”

Vossler thinks of trying again, and he can’t. He edges himself to the side of the bed, swings his legs to the floor. “You talk a lot, Archadian.” He makes himself smile a little. He doesn’t mean it to sting.

It doesn’t seem to. Gabranth stretches luxuriously, gathering the top sheet’s edges as he folds back into himself. Beneath it are sheets of blue silk, and Gabranth throws the top sheet on the floor with the towel. Vossler can’t help but run his hand over the revealed sheets, and they’re finer than anything he’s ever touched. Such a hedonist. But it’s hard to mind.

Gabranth presses Vossler’s hand harder against the fabric. “There may come a time when you find yourself enjoying that about me.”

Vossler thinks of Gabranth’s voice husked at his ear, the firm coolness of it giving orders. His cock lifts a little between his legs. “I didn’t say it was all bad now.”

Gabranth makes a faintly pleased sound, looks smug, and Vossler follows him to the shower. Before they step into the water, Gabranth lifts the bandage from Vossler’s chest, says it won’t hold in the spray, anyway. Says he’ll re-do it after. His thumb drags slowly beside the scratches, the clotted blood, and even though Vossler pushes forward as though he’s whole, Gabranth is careful where he’s torn him open.


End file.
